


Abyss

by ElanVitar



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Bloodplay, Breathplay, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, Graphic Description, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElanVitar/pseuds/ElanVitar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder submits for a reason</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abyss

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to mylar-fic @ LJ on 27/03/07. Written for heroes50, prompt #45: Devour.

Sylar grabs Mohinder and pulls him back, harshly. And Mohinder feels that Sylar is, indeed, quite interested. Not that he could formulate that thought when Sylar drives his teeth in his neck. The only thing left to do is scream. And grind back, in a parody of a fight.

Whatever else you can say about Sylar, the man is quite thorough. And he likes marking his prey. Especially with his teeth. Mohinder fleetingly wonders whether there is anything canine in his genetic make-up, the way he cannot stop biting at every part of Mohinder he can reach.

Human flesh and especially human skin is very tough, Mohinder knows that much - you need to put strength into it to get through. Sylar does have strength, but he is mostly disregarding it. The only place where he really grinds his teeth, works through his flesh, is Mohinder's neck. He feels the blood cascading down his front and feels blackness blurring the edge of his vision, wondering/hoping/fearing/praying Sylar chewed down to and through his jugular, whether this will be the last time he will black out, whether he will never wake up again. He wonders who will find his corpse... perhaps Peter. Perhaps Hiro. He is nearly sorry for whoever will.

But Sylar does not let him go in peace. Can not. Will not. And so he is jolted awake again (so it was not the jugular) when Sylar penetrates him. Roughly, without any care. Mohinder could not possibly decide which pain is worse, and so he wishes himself back to unconsciousness. To no avail, and tears start pricking hotly behind his lids.

Sylar is fucking him. *Sylar* is *fucking* him. Or is this rape? He never consented... but he did not try to fight him off, either. Of course, trying to fight off Sylar might have actually ended worse, far worse. Sylar does not strike him as the type to stop getting creative when trying to humiliate his prey. In light of this... maybe sex is not that bad. Is it really rape, then? Mohinder loses himself in the implications for a few moments.

A particularly violent twist leaves him speechless, his mouth hanging up and his eyes finally overflowing. At least Sylar has moved away from actually biting him, even though him licking his neck is quite thoroughly creepy in the worst way. Mohinder would like to believe that Sylar is too lost in... *fucking* him, but he knows he would be lying to himself. Sylar is not someone to *lose* himself in anything. He can nearly feel the intelligence working behind him, getting even more fired on, getting more *creative* with every violent/filling/burning/ripping thrust.

Mohinder has always hated feeling helpless. But he has got no choice in this scenario. He has to submit. Or risk more than just his own life. As long as Sylar is obsessed... or maybe just distracted... with him, the others will at least have time to flee, to hide, maybe to organize against him. Otherwise he will descend upon them like a storm, and no one will survive. Mohinder cannot risk this. Not everyone is ruthless enough to attack Sylar, and alone... despite their specialness, or maybe because of it, they are vulnerable. More vulnerable than him, an entirely normal average human being. The irony is apparent, but Mohinder cannot laugh at it.

If this coincidence, if his death can buy them time, he is more than prepared for it.

\---

This time, Mohinder would laugh at the irony, if he just had the breath to do so. Apparently not blood loss will mark his death, but lack of oxygen. He feels the urge to giggle hysterically, but knows these are the first symptoms of oxygen deprivation. How weird, how much more of his science education resurfaces the more Sylar abuses his body. Were he inclined towards psychology, he would declare this a coping mechanism, but as it is he just stares at the wall,  
counting the colourful spots in his vision and mentally preparing himself for the inevitable.

But Sylar is still not done with him. He abruptly lets go of the scarf and starts rubbing Mohinder's bruised throat in a nearly tender gesture, prompting Mohinder to reflexively inhale and start coughing away with the sudden overflow of air. His eyes water and his coughing makes the by now familiar spots dance in front of his eyes again, and he is unaware of anything for several minutes. But when he comes to again, he feels Sylar's hands on his  
stomach, rubbing circles into his flesh. It is not necessarily a soothing gesture, but Mohinder cannot help but relax the barest hint. Sylar notices this, of course, and his hands start wandering; but not down, as Mohinder expected (more humiliation is to be done to him, after all), but rather up... until Sylar's fingers settle on his nipples, resting there for a second before violently pinching and pulling them as though to rip them off and chew on *them*, too.

Mohinder does have the oxygen to scream now, but deliberately does not. It is his last act of defiance, or so he tells himself, to keep quiet and not give Sylar the satisfaction.

Sylar obviously does not care either way. He just pulls out (nearly making Mohinder scream, after all; the pain just about makes him black out again), flips him over and rams himself in again (and weirdly this hurts less. Mohinder does not dare think about the implications in regards to his behind).

And soon Mohinder loses himself to the rhythm, despite everything. He is lulled in... not to sleep (Sylar would never permit this), but the quiet inside himself makes the pain bearable.

\---

Afterwards, Mohinder catalogues his wounds, quite clinical and detached. His neck is sticky with blood, as is his stomach (if with other substances), every move pulls muscles he did not even know existed and he is quite sure his lips are chewed up and swollen as well, downright screaming "I got shagged within an inch of my life, and I *liked* it".

Regardless of whether he did or not. Appearance is everything, after all.

Mohinder has looked in the abyss... and it has devoured him.


End file.
